Tell No Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

here?’ Ferreira asked, perching on the desk.
    ‘Ivan. My cousin.’
    ‘And where’s he?’
    ‘He go buy breakfast. Van near Wickes – he has girl there.’
    Hossa started tapping away at his laptop and Zigic saw Ferreira sifting through the paperwork on the other desk. Hossa was watching her out of the corner of his eye but he said nothing.
    ‘Where are you from, Mr Hossa? Originally.’
    ‘Slovakia.’ He frowned. ‘I make business there when I am young. Sell cars. Do well. Then men come, say, “Nice business, Bogdan, we will take this.” And they take. Then I come to England. This does not happen in England.’
    Not very often, anyway, Zigic thought. And not a business like this.
    ‘I sell this car on Tuesday.’ Hossa leaned back in his chair and knitted his fingers across his chest. ‘To John Smith.’
    ‘What’s the address?’ Ferreira asked.
    ‘No address.’
    ‘But you took a copy of his driver’s licence?’
    Hossa’s face darkened. ‘Ivan sells this car. He is not careful.’
    ‘He got the money at least?’ Ferreira asked, an edge coming into her voice.
    ‘This he is careful with.’
    ‘Then we need to speak to Ivan,’ Zigic said.
    Hossa glanced at his watch, a gaudy rose gold thing with a huge bezel studded with diamonds. ‘He will be back. You wait, yes?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Hossa, we wait.’
    They settled into silence, Hossa staring pensively at his shoes, emitting an occasional soft snort. Ferreira started to roll a cigarette and asked Hossa if he minded before she lit up.
    ‘Please, no.’ He gestured at his chest. ‘Asthma.’
    She went outside and Zigic saw her wandering around the cars as she smoked, checking tax discs and the numbers etched on the windows, looking for something they could use for leverage against Hossa and his cousin if they decided not to cooperate suddenly. Zigic doubted it would come to that. If what Hossa said was true he wouldn’t risk losing another hard-built business by antagonising them.
    He thought of the name the buyer had given – John Smith.
    It could be real but his gut instinct said it wasn’t. He was sure that only an English person would use it as an alias though. It was too culturally specific.
    Outside, a burgundy 4x4 with blacked-out windows pulled onto the lot, stopping with its bumper a few feet away from the Portakabin and the man who got out made Bogdan Hossa look svelte. Three hundred pounds of soft fat in grey joggers and a brown suede jacket. He carried a striped plastic takeaway bag in one hand and a tray of hot drinks in the other, banged the car door shut with his backside.
    Hossa stood up as he came in, said something to him in Slovakian, his tone sharp.
    Ivan looked at Zigic. ‘White Volvo, yes?’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘I sell this car.’
    Hossa let off another volley of machine-gun Slovakian at him and it looked like the words hit hard.
    Ivan skulked around behind his own desk and put his breakfast down.
    ‘You did not ask this man address,’ Hossa said.
    ‘He says he has no house.’
    ‘Was he English?’ Zigic asked.
    Ivan shrugged, bored-looking.
    ‘It is very important that we find this man.’
    ‘English maybe, yes.’
    ‘You must have spoken to him. Did he have an English accent?’
    Ivan lifted a white styrofoam carton out of the bag, opened it to reveal a fat burger and chips.
    ‘He is slow,’ Hossa whispered.
    Zigic massaged his temple with his fingertips, watching Ivan take a massive bite out of his burger, ketchup dripping onto the paperwork across his desk. He certainly looked slow, but his English seemed fairly good. If his build wasn’t completely wrong Zigic would have suspected he was driving the Volvo that morning.
    ‘What did the man look like, Ivan?’
    ‘Normal man. He wear hat.’ Another big bite of the burger and when he spoke again it was around a mouthful of meat and soggy bap. ‘Red hat.’
    The door of the Portakabin banged opened and Ferreira nodded for him to join her.
    Outside a